


in the morning light

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is trying very hard to work. Enjolras has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the morning light

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair, and scratches his jaw absently, the morning scruff bristle against his fingers. The sun pushes through the faded red curtains of Enjolras' bedroom, and fills it with golden morning light, warm and comforting. The rest of the flat is empty; Courfeyrac and Combeferre left about half an hour ago to do some shopping, slamming the door, and leaving silence behind them. There is only the sound of Grantaire's pencil, scratching furiously against the paper of his sketchbook.

He started drawing as soon as he woke up, hit by sudden inspiration for a character in his comic, a summer project on which he's supposed to collaborate with Feuilly and a couple of other art students he knows. And even if the character in question looks a little bit like Enjolras, with his mop of blonde hair and an aristocratic face, well, Grantaire's never going to admit to it.

Enjolras, who is pressed against Grantaire's side, fast asleep; Enjolras, in his stupid dark blue pyjamas; Enjolras, snoring unattractively, his face tucked into the crack between their two pillows. It makes Grantaire's heart swell with affection.

He doesn't know why he, of all people, has the privilege to see Enjolras like this, open and raw and vulnerable, stripped of all masks. He only knows he is incredibly grateful for it, and for the fact he is probably the only person in the world who knows Enjolras has a small birthmark on his lower back, of which he is uncharacteristically self conscious; the only person who's seen Enjolras with his hair ruffled and crumbly morning eyes; the only person to have the honour of kicking Enjolras in the shins when he took over too much of the bed, which he did, all the time. In life composed and calculated, Enjolras was a terribly messy sleeper, not excluding talking, drooling, and, on one memorable occasion, actually managing to kick Grantaire off the bed, all while fully asleep.

Enjolras lets out one last 'hrrrrknmph' before waking up, his eyes narrowing at the brightness of the room. When confronted with the fact that he snores (and rather loudly and scarily at that), Enjolras would refuse to admit it, vehemently shaking his head and rejecting  the audio evidence Courfeyrac once recorded sometime around 3am, and trying to maintain as much dignity as possible.

Grantaire never brought it up; he actually liked the sound.

It made his Apollo seem more human.

Enjolras lifts himself on his elbows and regards the room blearily, blinking slowly, before pressing a kiss to Grantaire's temple with a soft "good morning" and stumbling to the bathroom.

There are a few moments of silence, and then there's the sound of the shower door opening and closing, and water splashing against tiles.

Grantaire wonders idly if he should join Enjolras in the shower, but decides to finish the sketches first,  faces and figures simply blooming under his fingers now. He tucks his legs beneath him, and dedicates himself to his work completely.

It's a long ten minutes before the humming of water running through pipes stops abruptly, and just a few moments later Enjolras re-emerges, his hair slightly damp from the condensation, in nothing more than his pyjama bottoms, tied loosely and hanging very low on his hips. Enjolras is a bit buffer than Grantaire, though not by much; his arms are more muscled and his chest a little defined, left from his fencing years, as he admitted to Grantaire when he first teased him about it.

Grantaire tries very, _very_ hard to concentrate on the sketch.

Which proves to be rather difficult, with Enjolras now pressing up against his side and watching him draw, and smelling of his 100-percent-organic grass body lotion, his breath slow and calm on Grantaire's skin.

 _He must know what he's doing, the bastard_ , thinks Grantaire, trying to keep his hand steady.

"That kind of looks like me", Enjolras says in Grantaire's ear, his voice low.

"Nah", Grantaire replies, trying to ignore that Enjolras has apparently now lost all interest in his sketchbook, and devoted himself to kissing Grantaire's shoulder, his fingers trailing off underneath Grantaire's shirt, dragging themselves along the goose bumped skin.

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac will be here any minute", Grantaire says, but already feels himself giving in.

"Mmph", agrees Enjolras, sucking lazily on Grantaire's ear lobe, enjoying the way it made the other man's hands shake.

"I really need to, _uh_ , finish this", Grantaire says.

"You can do it later", suggests Enjolras, before biting his neck, his hands on Grantaire's hips now, and subtly slipping lower.

"You're making me horribly unproductive", Grantaire says, his voice weak.

Enjolras' stubble rubs on his neck, and there is only so much a man can take before caving in; he leans into the touch, letting Enjolras take the sketchbook out of his hands and put it on the side of the bed.

"Now", murmurs Enjolras, turning over and straddling Grantaire, who makes a small noise of surprise, his  hands sliding around the small of Enjolras' back.

They kiss softly, breathing quietly through their noses, morning kind of kisses, before Enjolras decides it's not enough, it's definitely not enough, and fists one hand through Grantaire's curls, deepening the kiss with calculated determination, sliding his tongue between Grantaire's lips. Grantaire's hands slip a little lower down Enjolras' back, now cupping his ass, and moving slowly up and down.

They fit together so easily now, moving around each other confidently, both familiar with what the other one wants, needs; Grantaire doesn't know when this happened, how he became so used to Enjolras' body, treating it like a second skin, knowing just where to touch and where to kiss.

They break apart just long enough for Enjolras to take Grantaire's shirt off and throw it somewhere behind his head. He moves his lips down, to the place where Grantaire's neck meets his left shoulder, and bites him again, feeling the salty sweetness of his skin on his tongue, and Grantaire gasps.

They rock their hips together, Grantaire moving his head to press kisses along Enjolras' jaw, before Enjolras pushes him down on the mattress, his lips fluttering across Grantaire's pale torso, all the way down, until he's kissing his navel sloppily, one hand firmly pressed to Grantaire's hip to keep him from thrashing.

He noses the visible bulge in Grantaire's boxers, drawing a shaky breath from him, and mouths at its cotton outline gently before reaching to pull his pants down.

Grantaire gasps and lifts his head to look at Enjolras; they lock eyes for a long moment.

Then Enjolras takes his erection in his mouth, lips wet and soft against it, almost deep throating, and Grantaire pants, fisting his hand in the bed covers.

Enjolras drags his teeth idly down the length of Grantaire's penis, and it shouldn't feel so good, but it does. He flickers his tongue against the tip of it, pushing Grantaire down when he whimpers, and sucks determinedly, lips sliding against sensitive skin.

The sight of Enjolras between his thighs is the most surreal one in his life; golden curls spilling over his navel, tickling him slightly, his mouth red around Grantaire's erection, set on pleasuring _Grantaire,_ of all  people. There is a fucking Greek god between his legs, giving him head, and Grantaire moans and thrashes and comes in his mouth, his knuckles white.

Enjolras swallows, wipes his lips, and smiles like the sun.

It isn't fair, Grantaire thinks, for him to look so put together, when Grantaire is going to be useless for the next fifteen minutes, being completely undone by Enjolras' stupid red mouth.

"Fuck", he breathes out, feeling Enjolras' arms curling around him.

He presses one kiss on Enjolras forehead, and lets one of his hands sink low to Enjolras' own crotch to feel the erection straining against the fabric of his pyjamas, and presses-

"Hey, lovebirds, uncle Courf and uncle 'Ferre are back from the market, so you better get decent and come help with the shopping!", Courfeyrac yells from the living room, slamming the apartment door, and Enjolras groans and buries his face in the pillows.

"I think not", mutters Grantaire, pushing the waistband of Enjolras' pyjamas down to find he's wearing nothing underneath them, the minx.

Enjolras' back turns rigid and arches, his skin almost gold in the sunlight, as Grantaire curves his fingers around Enjolras' erection, and moves them deliberately slowly.

"Fuck, _faster_ ", Enjorlas moans, not even bothering to keep it quiet, and there is a noise from the kitchen that sounds suspiciously like Combeferre dropping his bag of groceries.

Grantaire presses a kiss to his jaw, to his ear, to his neck,  his hand working up to a speed Enjolras finds acceptable, and Enjolras buries his face in Grantaire shoulder, one hand in Grantaire's hair, his mouth open against Grantaire's skin, gasping, biting down-

He comes all over Grantaire's hand, his fingers twisting in Grantaire's curls. They stay like that for a moment, Enjolras' faced tucked in the curve of Grantaire's shoulder, both breathing slowly into each other's skin. Grantaire wipes his hand absently on the sheet, and Enjolras would protest, but he's too tired for it. He's sweaty, again; he'll probably have to take another shower now. Grantaire curves an arm around him, humming contentedly, and their legs entwine together.

Enjolras feels, for a first time in ages, at ease, with someone looped around him and it feeling just right; with Grantaire's green eyes, meeting his, his face open and trusting. It makes something in his chest flutter, and he squeezes him tightly, pulling him closer, until they're pressed together head to toe, limbs locking and interweaving, warm skin and lazy smiles.

They somehow fit together, against all reason and odds; Enjolras is happy, for now, to just let it be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as an epilogue of sorts for the Dead Revolutionaries' Society, or a stand alone oneshot. Apparently I couldn't leave this 'verse alone, and conjured up this monstrosity just so I could keep on writing Enjolras/Grantaire and their lazy mornings. I'm so sorry. How do smut?  
> This is probably the last piece of the Dead Revolutionaries' verse, unless I get a sudden craving for writing more (which I will - there is no doubt about that). 
> 
> Comments (or any other kind of feedback) would be much appreciated!


End file.
